


persistent ghosts (sing of home)

by angelsdemonsducks



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Angst with a Hopeful Ending, But also, Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders Is A Good Friend, Gen, Getting Together, Grief/Mourning, Happy Ending, He's not actually dead, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Now with a second chapter!, Presumed Dead, Reunions, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, and a cameo from remy, but we've still got, frank discussions about mortality, i'm not out to hurt you too much, janus: idk but it makes me want to kiss you so, remus: how did i become the most emotionally stable one??, so here's some new tags:, with 100 percent more dukeceit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:28:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28387008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelsdemonsducks/pseuds/angelsdemonsducks
Summary: Roman tilts his head to look up at the sky. Appropriately, it’s raining, a steady grey drizzle. If Janus were here, he would make a characteristically mocking comment about cliches and the lack of originality of black umbrellas at a funeral. But then, if Janus were here, they wouldn’t be having a funeral, so it’s a moot point.In which Janus is dead, and everyone else tries to figure out where to go from there. It's not easy, and Roman's worried that they're fracturing at the seams.(But here is the thing: Janus isn't dead.)
Relationships: Anxiety | Virgil Sanders & Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders, Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders & Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders, Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders & Deceit | Janus Sanders, Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders & Logic | Logan Sanders, Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders/Deceit | Janus Sanders
Comments: 42
Kudos: 178





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional content warnings for swearing, mentioned terrible parents, implied past torture, and scars.
> 
> This is for my Bad Things Happen Bingo square 'Missing and Presumed Dead.' A tumblr anon requested this with Janus, and I absolutely could not resist.

Janus’ funeral is sparsely attended.

“I thought they would at least show up,” Virgil mutters beside him. Roman glances over; he has pulled the sleeves of his suit jacket as far over his hands as they will go, but that does not disguise the way he’s balled them into fists. “Fuck, I thought they would at least—”

He cuts himself off, but Roman knows who he’s talking about. Janus’ parents were the ones to have him officially declared dead, after six months of investigation that turned up no leads. But they’re not here now. Almost no one is here now, in fact; it’s just the five of them, the five of them who are left, plus Janus’ literary agent. That’s all. Six people. Six people to watch an empty casket be lowered into the ground. Six people to mourn.

“I’m not sure he would have wanted them here.” Logan’s voice is bleak. “You know they didn’t get along.”

Remus snorts. “Understatement.”

Roman tilts his head to look up at the sky. Appropriately, it’s raining, a steady grey drizzle. If Janus were here, he would make a characteristically mocking comment about cliches and the lack of originality of black umbrellas at a funeral. But then, if Janus were here, they wouldn’t be having a funeral, so it’s a moot point.

His hand tightens on the handle of his umbrella. His black umbrella.

The coffin is lowered into the ground. Six feet deep; not that the depth matters. There is no body in that coffin. Roman’s mind hasn’t quite made the leap from thinking of him as _missing_ to thinking of him as _dead_ , and he doubts he will for a long time. Even though, just this once, he agrees with the assessment of Janus’ parents, though not for the same reasons. _They_ wanted the case shut, wanted to move on and forget all about it, forget all about the son who they considered a disappointment. Roman didn’t want the investigation ended, but he _does_ think that Janus would never disappear for so long without a word. Not on purpose. Not unless something happened.

Now, they’re not likely to ever know what it was.

“Should… should someone say something?” Patton whispers.

It wouldn’t be quite right to say that Patton is taking it the hardest out of all of them, because they are all taking it hard, and Roman’s not keen on making a competition out of it. But he thinks it would be fair to say that Patton is showing it the most; where the rest of them tend to retreat into themselves to deal with their emotions, Patton wears his heart on his sleeve.

But Roman’s not sure how to respond to him. Speeches are a thing at funerals, he knows. People talk about the deceased as a way to reminisce and find closure. But he also knows that he’s not ready for that, and he’s not sure that anyone else is, either.

“I’ll say something,” Remus announces. “Bye, you little bitch. If you’re not ruling hell by the time I get down there, I’m gonna be pissed.”

“ _Remus!_ ” Virgil hisses, even as Patton lets out a sob. But Remus just shrugs and kicks some dirt into the grave, and then turns and starts walking away. Roman grabs his arm to stop him, to tell him to— to tell him something; Roman doesn’t know. To apologize for making Patton upset, probably. But Remus just looks at him, darkness in his eyes, his lips set in a thin line, and Roman lets him go without a word.

Remus has his coping mechanisms. They all do. Roman’s not going to berate him for them. He has a feeling that if he did, Remus might break, and maybe he would too.

Silence falls for a moment, the only sound that of the rain tapping on their umbrellas.

“If Janus were here, he’d definitely be flipping Remus off right now,” Virgil finally says, and that startles a laugh from him. From Patton, too, though his is weaker.

“He would also be irritated with us for making such a scene,” Logan adds.

“God, can you imagine?” Virgil says. “He’d so be making fun of us right now.” He cocks his head, standing up straighter. “ _So_ glad to see you all coming together over this, but how about you do something that’s actually productive? Rob a bank in my name, perhaps?”

It’s a passable imitation of Janus’ voice, and it’s definitely something he would say. For a moment, it is enough to bring a smile to Roman’s lips, until he remembers that they will never get to hear Janus say such a thing again. Until he remembers that Janus is gone. Judging by the sudden silence, the others are thinking about the same thing. Virgil holds his pose for a second longer and then sighs, hunching in on himself. His eyes slide shut.

For a while, they stand there, looking into the grave. Roman tries to count the number of raindrops that hit his umbrella, but ultimately gives it up as a fruitless endeavor.

“He was a real one,” the literary agent says suddenly, startling him. Remy, Roman’s pretty sure his name is. He’s talked to him a few times. Janus liked him. Usually, he’s carrying around a cup of Starbucks coffee, but there’s no sign of that today. “Gotta say, this sucks major ass.” Not exactly the most eloquent of speeches, but it seems heartfelt, at least, and it has to count for something that he bothered to show up at all. “You all need anything, you let me know, alright?” And then, he gives them all a nod, and he, too, is walking away.

 _And then there were four,_ Roman thinks, glumly.

“I don’t know that standing here much longer will do any of us any good,” Logan says at length. “I’m sure that Janus wouldn’t want us to linger. Unless someone does want to say something?”

Patton sniffles, but doesn’t speak up. Virgil opens his mouth, but closes it again, shaking his head.

Roman shifts his weight between his feet.

“I think it’s time to go,” Virgil says softly, and no one argues.

They walk back to their vehicle together: Remus’ beat-up old van, the only thing they have that would fit all six of them. Now that they’re five, they could have taken something else, but it would have felt wrong, would have felt too soon.

The van is Remus’, but he’s waiting in the passenger seat, arms crossed and eyes closed, so Logan takes the responsibility of driving. There’s room to spread out, but Roman gets the sense that nobody wants to, so he, Patton, and Virgil all pile into the back row of seats, Virgil in the middle.

Roman casts one last look back at the graveyard as Logan starts the car. There are people there filling in the grave, now. They’d been hanging around the periphery, patiently waiting for them to be done before going about their work. Just another day, for them.

He sighs, leaning his forehead against the window.

“You’ve been quiet,” Virgil murmurs, and he glances over. Virgil isn’t looking at him, but Patton seems to be falling asleep on his shoulder, so he assumes Virgil is talking to him.

“Haven’t had much to say,” he says.

“I get that,” Virgil says. He tilts his head back against the seat, and when no more seems to be forthcoming, Roman returns his attention to the window, watching the world outside slip past faster than he can absorb it.

He knows it’s odd, for him, to not be talking. But he feels drained, and more than a little numb. He doesn’t have the energy to say much, doesn’t even have the energy to think much. He’s not sure he’s processing what’s happening. He probably isn’t, in fact, and it’ll probably all hit him at once one day in the near future, and he’ll have a breakdown and it will be messy and horrible but at least it will be done, and he’ll have accepted that one of his best friends is gone forever.

The thought makes him nauseous. Which is the worst, but at least he’s feeling something, so he almost welcomes it.

* * *

They find a routine, eventually. It’s an awful thing, to have to build a new life around someone’s absence, but slowly and surely, they manage it. They all have their ways of dealing; Logan buries himself in his work, Virgil spends more time at the animal shelter than at home, Patton bakes and actually makes an effort to follow the recipes in a way that he never has before, and Remus uses a slew of bad, R-rated horror movies as a distraction.

Roman starts taking walks.

Long walks, without paying mind to his destination, without bringing along music or an audio book to listen to along the way, as he might once have. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his jacket and just walks, at first through the neighborhood and then expanding into nearby parks and hiking trails. They’re in a good area for that, though he’s never taken advantage of it before.

He never used to like to be alone with his thoughts. Never used to like the quiet. He thrives off of being around people, thrives off of being able to entertain, to put on a show. He always thought that he needed an audience in order to truly feel at peace.

But these walks are nice. They help him clear his head in a way that he simply can’t when he’s in the house, a house full of memories that now sting, a house full of people that tiptoe around each other, none of them wanting to cause anyone else pain but not knowing how to avoid it, either. Sometimes, Roman feels as though they’re all coming apart at the seams, as if Janus took whatever held them together as a family with him when he… left.

They’ll pull through, he thinks. They all care about each other too much not to. But he’s scared of what they’ll look like on the other side, whether they’ll know each other at all. Because right now, they all seem well and determined to get through this by themselves, to grieve alone in the home that they all share.

Roman can’t point fingers, of course. He’s doing it too, and he knows it.

And then, one morning, Logan asks if he can come with him.

It comes as a surprise. Logan, out of all of them, has been the most distant, spending most of his time either at the office or in his office at home, and it’s become not uncommon to go days without seeing him for more than a minute or two at a time. But here, he is, asking if he can accompany Roman on his morning walk, and Roman doesn’t have a reason to say no, so they both bundle up and strike out into the crisp fall air. For a while, they’re both silent, and it’s nice; though Roman is hyper-aware of Logan’s presence beside him, there is no pressure to make conversation, which he appreciates.

“It has come to my attention that I have not been using particularly healthy coping mechanisms,” Logan says eventually. It’s quiet, contemplative, and more than that, it’s an invitation to talk rather than a demand, and Roman feels himself relax marginally. The words come to his mouth easier than they have in a while.

“I don’t think that any of us have,” he says, and Logan huffs out a short laugh, his breath fogging up in front of his face.

“No,” he says, “maybe not. I would still like to apologize for my own distance, and start taking steps to correct it.” He sighs. “The truth is that I have no idea how to deal with my own emotions, much less help anyone else with theirs.”

There is a bitter edge to his words that Roman finds odd, and he casts Logan a sideways glance. Logan is staring straight ahead of him, but in the way that tells Roman he’s doing it with particular intent, so as to avoid having to look at him.

“Did something happen?” he asks.

It takes Logan a moment to respond. “A few weeks ago, I brought up the subject of what we might consider doing with Janus’ things,” he says. “Patton didn’t take it well.”

Roman can understand why; Janus’ room sits empty, unused, collecting dust, but the thought of packing away or getting rid of Janus’ personal effects makes something in his chest twist. He must make a face, or perhaps his silence sounds too damning, because Logan is quick to continue.

“I didn’t mean we should get rid of it,” he says, “any of it, I just thought that it might help us move forward. Find closure. I didn’t mean to sound callous, but I suppose I must have. I don’t— I don’t _want_ this to be happening, I don’t _want_ him to be gone, but logically speaking, we can’t leave his room like that forever, and logic is what—”

“It’s what you fall back on,” Roman finishes. “I know, Specs.” He lays a hand on his arm. “And I bet Patton knows that, too.”

Logan lowers his head, staring at the ground. “Maybe,” he says. “I just… I want to be able to help. I want to be able to be what people need from me. But it seems whenever I try that, I fail.”

“So you threw yourself into work instead,” he says. “It’s alright, Lo, no one blames you for this, and I’m sure Patton doesn’t. And none of the rest of us are the poster child for good coping mechanisms here.” He laughs, more than a little bitterly. “Hell, just look at what I’m doing.” He shakes his head. This is more than he’s said in one go in a while, and more than that, it’s the most honest he’s allowed himself to be with another person. Really, it’s the most honest he’s been with _himself_ , too. “I say I like to do it because it clears my head, and it’s not like that’s not true, but…” He trails off, shrugging, but Logan seems to know exactly what he means.

“It’s what happened to him,” Logan says softly. “He left for a walk and never returned.”

“I think I’m looking for closure, too,” he admits. “It’s just that… his parents had the fucking investigation closed, so we’re never going to know what happened to him, if he was kidnapped or murdered or what. We’re never going to know, and he’s never going to get the send-off he deserves, and the worst part about it is that we can’t even be a hundred percent sure that he’s dead!”

He stops in his outburst, surprised by himself. He hadn’t realized that that was what he was struggling with most, but it’s the truth. It’s not _fair_ , that they’ll never know, that they’ll probably never find the closure they all need so badly, and that’s what he’s grappling with more than anything else.

“You’re not wrong. Statistically speaking, it is highly improbable that he’s still alive, after all this time.” Logan pauses. “But not completely impossible.”

“He could still be out there,” he says. He feels deflated, the numbness creeping in once again. “He could still be alive, and we’ll never fucking know. And we just have to live with that.”

“Yes,” Logan says, and doesn’t say anything else, and neither does he.

He feels worse and better all at the same time. Worse, to finally hear it voiced, the cruel reality of it all, paired with the knowledge that there is absolutely nothing that any of them can do about it. But better, too, for having said it, for having shared his thoughts with someone who understands. Better for finally feeling a little bit less alone.

Logan doesn’t look very happy, either, but he walks with his shoulders held straight rather than hunched, so perhaps that’s a sign that things will improve from here.

* * *

A few days later, he steps into Janus’ room for the first time since the funeral.

There is a thin coating of dust covering everything, but the space is still achingly familiar. There, in the corner, the old jukebox that everyone chipped in to get him for this last birthday. There, against the walls, his bookshelves, philosophy and psychology and his own novels, a decently-selling psychological thriller series that he always joked he would cast Roman in, if a movie ever started production. There, hanging all over the room, photographs, all of them happy and smiling together, because Janus claimed so often that he wasn’t one for sentiment even as he clung to their friendships with a dogged determination, with a fierce love and caring that he so rarely allowed to show openly.

Roman stands in the doorway. He’s not sure what he’s doing here.

He tries to imagine the room bare, and he can’t. He certainly can’t imagine one of the others moving in; he’s shared a room with Remus his whole life, and though Patton and Logan also share a room, he’s never heard either of them express discontent with that. If this room is to become anything else, it will be a guest room, but even the thought of that hurts.

Logan is right, though. They can’t keep it like this forever, like some sort of decaying shrine. Janus would have pitched a fit at the idea, would call them all ridiculous if he was still here, and for the first time, thinking of him brings a smile to Roman’s face alongside the pain.

He’s about to leave, about to close the door behind him, when there is a rustle of movement, and Remus’ head pokes up from the other side of Janus’ bed.

“Roman?” he asks, squinting, and Roman blinks.

“Remus?” He frowns, stepping back in. “What are you doing?”

“Vibing,” Remus replies, even though it is very clear that he is not doing that. “Contemplating the inevitable heat death of the universe. When it happens, do you think that we’ll have time to feel it, or do you think that it’ll be quick?” He snaps his fingers, once, the sound sharp. “Like a beheading? Except, I think you stay alive for a little bit after a beheading, so maybe not that.”

Roman sighs, and crosses the room to settle down on the floor by Remus’ side.

“I don’t think we’ll still be alive when it happens, so I don’t know if that matters,” he says.

“Yeah, but what if we were?” Remus persists. His voice is unusually quiet, strangely contemplative. “I think it would be better for it to be quick, so there wouldn’t be time to think about it. But what if it was the kind of thing where it happened in all the other parts of the universe first, so the scientists would know it was coming and shit? So everyone would know that we were doomed, but nobody would be able to do anything about it, so we’d all just have to sit there knowing that we’d all be dead in a few weeks.” He pauses. “That’d be no fun. But what if it’s like that?”

“Remus.”

He’s pretty sure that they’re no longer talking about the heat death of the universe.

“We’re coming apart,” Remus says matter-of-factly. “Like… zombies. Rotting bodies. Missing parts.” He pauses. “Operation. That game sucks.”

He leans his head back against the bed. Janus’ bed. “Maybe,” he says. “But just because we’re coming apart a little right now doesn’t mean that we’ll come apart completely. And it doesn’t mean that we can’t come back together. Like, uh… can you stitch an arm back on a zombie? I feel like you can.”

“If it doesn’t eat your brains out,” Remus says, but he sounds mollified.

For a while, they sit there in silence, shoulder to shoulder. Roman taps out rhythms on his knees, and Remus hums short tunes, and they both just exist in the space.

“I think I was in love with him.”

Roman jerks.

“What?”

Remus nods. “Yeah. My heart would always beat stupid-fast whenever I was near him. And I kept thinking about kissing him. And having sex with him. And like, holding his hand. Shit like that. I think that means I was in love with him. And now I’ll never get to tell him. Isn’t that weird? And now I’ve gotta keep it with me until it rots away. Unless it’s like McDonald’s. McDonald’s doesn’t rot away ‘cause it’s full of preservatives. I watched a documentary with Logan.” He cocks his head. “I dunno if I want it to rot away or not. If it rots away, it’ll be gone, but I think I want to keep it, even though it hurts, y’know?”

Roman’s mouth is dry. He thought he’d experienced all the types of grief that he could possibly go through, but here is a new form: grieving for his brother’s sake, for the relationship that he will never get to attempt.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I know.” He stops, swallows. “Remus, I’m—”

“Don’t say sorry,” Remus says. “I think that just makes it worse.” He sighs, pulling his knees up to his chest and laying his arms across them. “I kinda wanna be alone right now, Ro.”

Roman’s heart clenches.

“Okay,” he says. “Let me know if you need anything?”

Remus smiles at him as he gets up. It’s not a particularly happy smile, but it’s enough to let Roman know that he hasn’t misstepped, that Remus appreciates the offer. And Roman takes hope in that, even if he doesn’t feel entirely comfortable leaving Remus alone; Remus doesn’t do well by himself, just as he doesn’t, so the fact that he’s taking part in the same isolation as everyone else is worrying. But Roman doesn’t want to push where he isn’t welcome, so he leaves the room— Janus’ room— and gently closes the door behind him.

And then leans against it, closing his eyes, taking a deep breath. The sorrow he feels takes him by surprise; it’s intense, concentrated, like it hasn’t been in months. It threatens to overwhelm him right then and there.

“Roman?”

He opens his eyes. Virgil is standing further down the hallway, watching him. “You okay?”

He nods, but somehow, that’s not enough. Virgil approaches, slowly, hesitantly, eyebrows pinched in what can only be concerned, and Roman just stands there, watching him until he’s right beside him. He visibly hesitates, but then reaches out and lays a hand on Roman’s arm.

“Are you sure?” he asks, low and quiet.

Roman tries for a smile, though he can feel how thin it is, how wavering. “Yeah,” he says. “Um, Remus could probably use some support. Later, maybe.”

Virgil nods, but the look of concentration doesn’t leave his face. “Okay,” he says, still in that same tone, “I’ll see about that. But right now, I’m asking about you.”

Silence hangs in the air between them. One second passes, and then another, too long and too short all at once.

“Do you… do you want a hug?” Virgil asks.

 _Yes_.

He didn’t know that he did, didn’t know that he was looking for it. But now that Virgil has offered, it’s all that he wants, so, wordlessly, he steps forward, and Virgil’s arms come up to meet him, encircling him in a firm grip. He places his own arms lower, in a looser hold, but Virgil doesn’t seem to mind. Virgil is the perfect height for Roman to bury his face in his shoulder, so he does that, too, hiding his face as he can’t stop the tears from flowing.

“This is the absolute worst,” he mumbles, and he doesn’t try to disguise the thickness of his voice. Somehow, in this moment, with Virgil, it doesn’t seem to matter whether he can hold himself together or not.

“Yeah,” Virgil sighs, and his own voice is a bit froggy. “Yeah, it is.”

He doesn’t know how long they stay together, like this, but he is content enough to linger. He’s letting himself fall apart, just a bit, but perhaps he needs to. And perhaps here, with Virgil, it’s alright to do it, because they can both help one another pick up the pieces afterward.

So for a little while, Roman lets himself feel. The grief, the pain, all of it. Lets himself feel, and hopes that afterward, maybe he’ll be able to start moving forward again.

* * *

Slowly, things get better.

They fall back into each others’ orbits gradually. Virgil coaxes Remus back into their company, going out places with him and even taking him to the animal shelter where he volunteers. Roman wouldn’t have thought that Remus and small, cute animals were a great combination, since Remus tends to veer more toward animals with teeth or venom or strange features. But apparently, it goes well, and Roman sees the light return to Remus’ eyes.

It’s the same with the others. Logan makes more of an effort to spend time away from his work. Patton hides in the kitchen less. And one day, he comes down from the attic with some empty boxes.

“We’ve been putting this off,” he says determinedly, and Roman is gratified to see that he makes direct eye contact with Logan. “Or, really, I have, because I wasn’t ready to face it. But we all know that Janus wouldn’t have wanted us to keep his things exactly the way they were and let them gather dust and mold and all that. So if everyone’s alright with it, I think we should start putting things in the attic. Like… like Logan said a little while ago, we don’t have to get rid of anything. But I… I know I need this. And I think the rest of us do, too? Maybe.”

He sounds less certain of himself by the time he finishes, and that’s a new thing, his hesitance to make his opinions known. But no one seems to disagree, though when Roman glances at Remus, he’s refusing to look at anyone.

So they do it. Start to pack up the life that Janus lived. It seems impossible, to be able to store Janus’ presence in their home into cardboard boxes, but inch by inch, his room becomes more and more bare. It’s a work that will take months, he thinks, because they always do it all together, to support each other, to reminisce when they find things that spark old memories. It becomes like a ceremony, a way to celebrate Janus even as they continue to mourn him.

Roman starts to feel a little more at peace. A little less like he’s on the verge of a mental breakdown.

So, when the doorbell rings, he’s alone in the house.

Logan and Patton are both at work. Virgil and Remus are out, too, though he doesn’t remember whether they were going to the shelter or not. He’s alone in the house, and technically, he’s supposed to be searching for his next audition, because he finally feels ready to be back on stage again. What he’s really doing is sitting on the couch and watching Steven Universe reruns on low volume, but frankly, there’s no rush. They’re not strapped for cash, even with only two members of the household working consistently.

He does want to get back to acting, really. But he feels alright in easing into it, taking it slow. He’s certainly not going to let himself feel guilt for pausing to watch a cartoon.

The first time the doorbell rings, he ignores it. Any of his friends would have let themselves in, and he doesn’t know who else it could possibly be. They have other friends, of course, friends who don’t live with them, but generally, any one of those would call or text before coming over. So whoever it is can’t be anyone important, and Roman is wearing sweatpants and hasn’t brushed his hair.

But then, it rings again, and this time, it is a constant tone, like whoever’s at the door is leaning on the buzzer. It goes on for about half a minute with no sign of stopping, so he gets to his feet, muttering a few choice words under his breath.

“I’m coming, keep your socks on!” he calls, and then sighs, muting the television. He doesn’t know who this is, but apparently, they can’t take a hint, so frankly, Roman doesn’t feel too bad about letting them see him in disarray. If they wanted him to be put together, they should have called ahead.

“Can I help you with some—” he starts, yanking the door open. And stops, the words cutting off along with his airflow, because suddenly he’s finding it difficult to breathe.

Janus leans against the doorway, apparently using it to prop up his weight. He’s wearing ill-fitting clothing that Roman doesn’t recognize, his hair is a greasy rats’ nest, and the bags under his eyes are so dark and deep that Roman almost mistakes them for Virgil’s eyeshadow. And his face— god, his _face_ —

It’s the first thing that Roman sees, really, though it takes him a minute to process it. The left side of his face is covered in scars, fresh ones, pink, ridges lines that cross every which way. The worst is a long line stretching from the corner of his mouth all the way to his ear, like a grotesque parody of a smile, but there are so many that it’s difficult to focus on one.

And Janus smiles at him.

“Hello,” he says. “I’m home.”

The world tilts on its axis.

“What—” Roman says. “What—” He can’t say anything else. His brain isn’t working properly.

“Sorry I’m late,” Janus continues, completely nonchalant, like this is a normal day and everything is fine and he hasn’t just come back from the _fucking dead_. “It’s been a rough few months. Do you know the book _Misery_? Stephen King?”

What? He can’t keep up with this, with the non-sequitur, with… literally any of this, with the fact that this is happening at all, with the fact that Janus is _alive_ after almost an entire year, what the _actual fuck_ —

“Uhhhh,” he says. “I think I’ve watched the movie? Isn’t that the one where the author gets held captive by—”

He stops. Stares. His heart is doing something strange, beating too fast, and his stomach is doing somersaults.

“Right,” Janus says, nodding. He smiles again. This time, though, it doesn’t look like a smile at all. “I’d rather not have to go through it more times than I have to. But rest assured, my failure to come home was not through lack of trying.” He pauses. “Can I come in?”

He jolts into action, because yes, of course, having him come inside was the first thing he should have done, shock or not, and he still doesn’t understand what’s happening, still isn’t processing much beyond disjointed thoughts such as _Janus is alive_ and _Someone hurt Janus_ and _Oh my god Janus isn’t dead_ , but he can do this. He can do this.

“Fuck,” he says, “yes, sorry—” And he tries to step back, to clear the way for Janus— Janus!— to step inside, but Janus doesn’t let him. Because as soon as he says the words, Janus lurches forward and collapses against him, gripping his shirt with both hands, burying his face against his shoulder, and it is only seconds before Roman realizes that Janus is trembling, is _crying_ , and Roman’s feeling more than a little numb right now, but he thinks he might be close to tears himself.

He wraps one hand around Janus, trying to soothe him as best as he can. With the other hand, he pulls out his phone and sends a quick text in the group chat: _fuckign get hom enow_. And then puts it away again, ignoring the fact that the others start typing responses immediately, because this is absolutely not something he can explain over text.

Janus is warm against him. Warm, even though he’s shaking like a leaf. Warm, present, alive. After so taking so long to come to terms with his death, he can’t let himself believe that Janus is here, that he’s come back, that he’s come home. He thinks of Janus’ room, the way it’s half empty, because half of Janus’ things are now sitting up in the attic in boxes.

 _We’ll have to take it all down again_ , he thinks. And that thought is what gets the tears to come.

They’re not happy tears. After so long mourning, how can they be? But they’re happier than they’ve been in a long, long time.

Roman guides Janus inside, and closes the door. But they don’t let go of each other. Not even once. And Roman is more than fine with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I almost ended this with Janus saying "I'm home," because it really seemed like such a good cutoff. But I also wanted a little more of a reunion, so there we go. I had a lot of fun with this one, so I hope you guys enjoyed!
> 
> I'm @whenisitenoughtrees on tumblr if you'd ever like to stop by!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> People expressed interest in a continuation of this fic, and I started to feel like, actually, I also kind of want a continuation of this fic. So. This was supposed to be a oneshot. It is no longer a oneshot. Here's some sweet, sweet Dukeceit resolution.
> 
> Content warnings for death mentions, aftermath of kidnapping and torture, scars, swearing, disassociation, description of (hypothetical) dead bodies, animal death mention (also hypothetical), and general Remus-typical imagery.
> 
> (This chapter is not nearly as dark as those warnings make it sound, though. There's more comfort here than hurt, don't worry.)

When Remus gets the text from Roman, he’s halfway convinced that his brother’s just died.

It’s a valid concern, he thinks. Judging from the expression on Virgil’s face when he reads it, he thinks so too. Because Roman doesn’t text like that— he doesn’t do typos, and he doesn’t do four words when he could use ten or twenty, because Roman wouldn’t know brevity if it bit him on the ass. So for him to send something like _fuckign get hom enow_ in the groupchat and then not respond to anyone’s followup texts? Is a little bit fucking concerning.

Virgil breaks several traffic laws to get them home as fast as possible. And Remus can’t even enjoy it, because he’s too busy worrying that he’s going to have to start mourning his brother when he’s not even finished mourning Janus yet. Not that he thinks he’ll ever be finished mourning Janus, but. Still.

He’s not sure what he’s expecting when he and Virgil burst through the door. Roman dead on the floor, maybe, in a puddle of blood. It’s not particularly likely, and it’s definitely the worst case scenario, but he’s never been known for thinking along logical lines. That’s Logan’s job.

He’s not sure what he’s expecting, but it’s not this.

It’s not Janus.

And it is Janus. He has to look to Virgil to confirm that he’s not hallucinating, but Virgil is standing there, frozen, jaw slack, and Remus knows that he sees it too. Sees him too. Sees Janus, curled in a ball against Roman, his face hidden against Roman’s chest. Roman himself is staring at them helplessly, his eyes red-rimmed, tear tracks not yet dry on his cheeks.

“Holy shit,” Virgil says. “Holy fucking goddamn shit.”

Janus moves at that, uncurling slightly and turning toward them. The scars are the first thing that Remus notices, because how could he not? They look relatively fresh, like they only just got done healing; they’re thick and pink and glaringly obvious against Janus’ skin. And they look far too precisely placed to be accidental. Which means someone did that to him. Someone hurt him, on purpose, bad enough to scar deeply.

Janus blinks at them. His eyes are red, too.

“Hello,” he says, and his voice is absolutely wrecked.

“Are you a fucking zombie,” Remus says. He’s not sure what other conclusion he’s supposed to draw here. Because the only other option is that Janus has been alive this whole time, in the hands of someone who _hurt_ him, and he. He can’t. He can’t deal with that.

Janus blinks. “No?” he says.

“Well shit,” Remus says. “That would’ve been really cool.”

His mind is doing something really weird right now. He feels distant, like he’s looking in at his body from outside of it. Like he’s not really here. Like he’s floating away. And he’s talking about zombies because that’s all his weird floaty brain will let him do, because he is literally incapable of processing the fact that Janus is alive and right in front of him and not dead after all, not lying somewhere in a ditch or rotting in someone’s basement or having his eyes get pecked out by crows, because eyes are always some of the first things to go.

He’s had dreams about Janus as a corpse. They’re not fun dreams. He hates them, but they won’t stop.

Will they stop, now that Janus isn’t a corpse any more?

“You’re alive,” Virgil says, voice like a prism breaking light into rainbows. “You’re _alive_.”

And then, Virgil is rushing forward, clambering onto the couch next to Roman and hugging Janus for all he’s worth. Remus hangs back, because his floaty brain won’t let him move just yet, so he thinks he’s the only one that sees the way that Janus flinches at the motion before relaxing into the embrace. And that’s so, so very wrong. Janus shouldn’t have to flinch. Janus shouldn’t have to be afraid, no matter how brief the fear was.

Roman is looking at him, now. Looking at him with that strange glimmer in his eyes that means he’s worried. Maybe he’s right to be. Remus is kind of starting to feel like he’s lost the thread, here.

He barely notices Logan and Patton arriving, within about half a minute of each other. Logan, first, and he hangs back for a minute, too, jaw slack, right up until Patton gets here, and then they’re both crowding around Janus just like Virgil and Roman are, and everyone is talking and crying and it’s weird and bizarre and maybe that’s the reason why nobody but Remus seems to realize how overwhelmed Janus is, how his eyes are darting around and his breathing has picked up just slightly. Roman is still holding him and Virgil has a grip on his wrist and Patton has buried his head in his shoulder and Logan is standing there and talking and Janus is taking all of it, isn’t saying a word in protest, but Remus knows what people look like when something is too much, when they want nothing more than to get _out_ of a situation.

_Okay, floaty brain. Work with me here._

He crosses his arms. He still feels far away from himself, but this much, maybe, he can do.

“Hey, Janny, you kinda look like shit,” he says, and all eyes in the room are on him now, which is. Fine. It’s fine. Doesn’t help with the floating, but it’s fine. “You wanna, like, shower?”

“Remus, don’t be so fucking rude—” Virgil starts, but Janus is nodding, and the relief on his face is poorly disguised.

“That would be nice, actually,” he says, and glances around him, at everyone else. “I promise, I’m _definitely_ going to disappear the moment I step into another room. But I feel disgusting, frankly.”

“You look it!” Remus says cheerfully, as soon as it becomes apparent that nobody knows what to say to that. No one is protesting, obviously, because that would be a dick move. But no one wants to let Janus out of their sight right now either, which is understandable, but also, he thinks, not exactly what Janus needs right at this second.

He’s not going to say that out loud, of course, because that’s too insightful, and he has a reputation to maintain. But he does finally manage to take a step forward, forcing some of his floaty brain back into his body and gesturing toward the staircase.

“C’mon,” he says. “I’ll find you some of your clothes while you’re at it. You look like a cross between a zookeeper and another zookeeper.”

Janus stands. “Another zookeeper?” he asks.

“The second one got mauled by an alligator.”

All of the others flinch; Roman sends him a glare, while Patton covers his mouth with his hand. He doesn’t see what they’re worked up about; the scars are there, plain as day and there to stay, and ignoring them won’t solve anything. Might as well try to take it in stride, even if he’s dying to know what happened, dying to know who hurt him and where they live so he can go over there and bash their brains in.

Janus snorts. “I should’ve guessed,” he murmurs.

As soon as Janus comes close enough, he takes his hand. He makes his movement big and obvious, so Janus can stop him if he wants to, but he doesn’t, so Remus takes his hand and leads him upstairs, trying not to have a freak-out over the fact that Janus is alive to hold hands with at all.

“We had to start putting away your stuff,” he says, because Janus is going to find out about that sooner or later, so it might as well be now. “Not all of it, though, and the rest is just in the attic. You want me to get you something, or do you wanna pick?”

They’ve reached the bathroom. Janus steps inside, his eyes flickering around the room as if he’s not quite sure what to do with it.

“You… you can choose,” Janus says, but he sounds about a million miles away. “Something light. Soft.”

“You got it,” he replies. Janus still isn’t moving, though, so he lingers for another moment. “You good?”

It’s a stupid question to ask, and he’s well aware of that. Of course Janus isn’t _good_. What he’s really asking is whether or not he’s fine to be left alone to do this, just not in so many words.

Janus jerks, looking back at him. He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes, and it makes his scars pull and contort in interesting ways, like his skin is straining to be free of his body.

“I’m fine,” he says, and they both know it’s a lie. “Thank you, for getting me out of there. Not that I’m not relieved to see you all again, but—” He stops, either unwilling or unable to finish, but that’s alright. Remus knows what he means.

“Sure,” he says softly. It’s strange, how being around Janus for all of five minutes makes him fall back into old patterns. He’s not soft, knows very well that he’s made up of all wildness and dangerous angles, but somehow, Janus brings out a side of him that’s all too mushy, a side of him that he frankly has no idea what to do with. “I’ll put your stuff right outside?”

Janus nods, and Remus takes that as his cue to leave. Janus shuts the door after him, and he stands there staring at it for a moment before walking down to Janus’ room. They’re still in the process of packing up, so there’s cardboard boxes all over the floor, cardboard boxes half-full of things that they were putting away to collect dust, because they thought that Janus would never be home to use them again. And now Janus is here, and they need to put all the stuff back again. Because Janus is alive after all. Alive and scarred, and Remus’ mind is beginning to work overtime, little though he wants it to.

Was he held down while they did it? Or was it a fight? Did Janus get a chance to defend himself, or was he pinned and screaming as someone ripped open his face?

He doesn’t want to be thinking about it. He can’t stop thinking about it.

But he can be thinking about it and getting some clothes out at the same time, so he roots through Janus’ drawers, searching for clothes that haven’t been put away yet. He finds some sweatpants and a worn yellow t-shirt, and that will do, he supposes. He grabs a pair of boxers, too, and under any other circumstance, he would be cracking jokes about rooting through Janus’ underwear drawer, but right now he just feels kind of cold.

He sets the clothes right outside the bathroom door. The shower is running. He stops to listen; the running water isn’t quite loud enough to cover up the sound of muffled sobs.

He closes his eyes. Clenches his jaw. Walking away is the hardest thing he’s done in a while, because his first impulse is to break the door down and beat the shit out of whatever made Janus feel that way, but that’s the problem. There’s nothing in there to fight. Just memories. And Remus is so, so scared of making everything worse.

Because he’s not soft, and Janus could probably do with some softness, right now.

He turns away from the bathroom and walks back downstairs. Everyone else is waiting for him, eyes expectant and the silence thick. He strides into the living room and throws himself onto the nearest unoccupied chair, limbs sprawling.

“He’s showering,” he announces, and silence falls once again. Roman has curled into himself, gripping his arms. What was it like for him, Remus wonders, to open the door and see a ghost standing there? No wonder his text was almost incoherent.

Virgil is the first to speak.

“What,” he says, “the actual fuck?”

Remus snorts, because that pretty much sums up everything, doesn’t it?

“I can’t believe he’s here,” Patton whispers. His eyes are still shiny with tears. All of their eyes are, actually, but it always sucks to see Patton cry. He’s like a puppy, that way. No one likes to see a crying puppy, except for the people who make the puppy cry. Do puppies actually cry? He bets that if you killed a puppy’s friend, the puppy would cry. Then you would have a dead puppy and a crying puppy. Buy one get one free.

Fuck.

He bites his lip. Hard enough to draw blood. No one notices.

“I can’t believe he’s—” Patton continues. “He’s been out there this whole time. And his _face_ —” His voice wavers, on the edge of a sob. “Someone _did_ that to him? Who would do that?”

“He said,” Roman starts, and Remus glances at him. Roman’s been having a rough time with talking, even though it’s gotten better lately. “He said something about _Misery_. The Stephen King book? Where the author gets held captive by a crazy fan?”

“That doesn’t happen in real life,” Virgil protests, though he’s already looking pale. Er. Paler. Than usual. It’s clear that his protest is only nominal, that it’s just because he doesn’t _want_ to believe that it could happen. Which. Yeah. Remus doesn’t want to believe it either. That kind of thing is fun to read about, fun to think about. It’s not fun to have it happen to somebody you— care about. “That doesn’t— that doesn’t just happen, fuck, it’s not supposed to—”

He cuts off, running his hand down his face. It smears his makeup, but he doesn’t seem to care.

“But it did,” Logan says quietly. He’s sitting very still, his hands clamped on his knees. “It did. We can’t do anything about it. But we can— we can accept that Janus is alive, rejoice in it. And we can be whatever he needs. Be his support. Be— be everyone else’s support. We can get through this.”

“Right,” Virgil says. He lets out a little laugh, soft and hysterical. “Right.”

“And obviously, we all want to know exactly what happened,” Logan says, “but we can’t push. He’ll come to us with what he wants to share, but we can’t overwhelm him.” He shoves his glasses farther up his nose in one swift, sharp motion, like he’s trying to embed the wire into his bones. “We can’t— as I suspect we just did.”

He looks to Remus for confirmation, and, well.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Yeah, that was… too much.”

Everyone has various expressions of devastation on their faces at that little tidbit, which is fun. But he’s not going to sugarcoat it for them. Overwhelming Janus is the last thing they need to be doing. Which, coming from him, is saying something.

“Fuck,” Virgil says.

“Fuck,” Roman agrees.

“One day at a time,” Logan says. “We take this one day at a time. Whatever that looks like.”

Patton sniffles. Otherwise, the room is quiet.

If Remus strains, he can hear the water running upstairs. But there’s nothing left to do now but sit and wait for Janus to come back down.

* * *

The first week is hard.

The first week is hard, because they’ve spent almost an entire year figuring out how to go on without Janus, and now he’s here again. The first week is hard, because everyone is back to walking on eggshells around everyone else and around Janus most of all. The first week is hard, because Remus can’t figure out where to go from here, can’t figure out what to do or say that will make anyone feel better, because that’s never been his role before, and on top of all of that, his heart insists on doing loop-de-loops whenever Janus walks into the room, so there’s that, too.

Not that he’s going to say anything about it. Ever. Literally ever. He only told Roman about it because he thought he would never have to deal with the consequences. Because he thought that Janus was never coming back, that he was stuck being in love with a corpse rotting in the woods somewhere.

He keeps having nightmares about that. Janus is alive, but his sleeping brain refuses to accept that, it seems. So he keeps having dreams where Janus’ flesh is grey and slippery, his skin sloughing off his body, hair falling out along with his scalp. He’s always smiling in those dreams. Remus hates it. He hates it, he hates it, he—

—wakes up with a thousand screams trapped in his throat and forgets that Janus is alive.

He remembers after a minute or so, because it’s been a week, and awake-him has mostly processed it even if sleeping-him hasn’t. But he’s sweaty and gross and he can’t get the images out of his head, and he needs to see for himself that Janus is here, so there’s really only one thing to do.

He slips out of the room that he and Roman share and creeps down the hall. And opens the door to Janus’ room.

It is dark. They haven’t finished putting everything back yet, but they’ve made good progress, so the silhouettes are familiar, at least. And the dim light from the hallway is just bright enough to illuminate part of the bed, to show him that there is a person-shaped lump lying there, that the bed is not empty as it has been the past few months, when Remus used to slip in here without telling anyone and sit next to Janus’ bed and cry because everything hurt and nothing was fair.

Alright. Janus is here. So he can go—

Unless it’s a corpse. Unless Janus is dead, and it’s his dead body lying there in that bed.

And Janus isn’t dead. He knows that’s ridiculous. But his thoughts have never left him alone because of something so mundane as being _ridiculous_ , so he’s going to have to get rid of them another way. He’s going to have to check.

He steps inside. Leaves the door cracked open just a little. And tiptoes over to the bed. His eyes adjust to the darkness gradually, but by the time he kneels at Janus’ bedside, he can make out the fact that Janus is breathing. In and out, deep and steady.

He lets out a breath of his own.

Right. That’s that, then.

“What are you doing?” Janus rasps.

He jerks. Blinks. And realizes what he didn’t, before: Janus’ eyes are wide open. Actually, he’s kind of glad he didn’t notice that, because that would not have helped to convince him that Janus wasn’t a corpse.

“Making sure you’re not dead,” he answers. “Sorry. I had a bad dream.”

“It’s fine,” Janus says. And Remus notices something else: Janus is crying. He doubts it’s just because he came into the room. But there are tears running down his cheeks, silver in the paltry light from the hallway, and Remus has to put a lot of effort into resisting touching them, brushing them away, collecting them on his finger and tasting them.

“You’re crying,” he says instead, and it’s stating the obvious, but it’s better than asking something stupid like _are you okay_ , since Janus is clearly not, and asking that would be an insult to them both.

Janus winces, enough that it’s visible in the dim light, and props himself up on his elbow. “I’m alright,” he says, and it’s so obviously a lie that Remus isn’t sure why he bothers. Except for the fact that Janus has always been afraid of being seen as weak. Has never liked asking for help, the hypocrite.

“Did you have a bad dream too?” Remus whispers.

For a minute, Janus is silent. And then, in one lurching motion, he sits all the way up, pressing his hands against his face and dissolving into silent, wracking sobs. Remus can’t stop the noise that escapes him, and he certainly can’t stop himself from clambering on top of the bed and clinging to Janus’ side like an octopus. Or a limpet. Or mold. For a heartbeat or two, he wonders if that was the right thing to do; he probably should have asked first, at least, because not everyone likes to be touched when they’re crying, and Remus hasn’t seen Janus cry often enough to know what he prefers. But it turns out that he doesn’t have to worry, because Janus twists around to be closer to him, to press himself up against Remus’ chest.

“I can’t sleep,” he whispers. “Every time I sleep, I’m back there again.”

The first week has been hard. Not least of which because Janus has told them pieces of what happened, has revealed the broad strokes. He’s had to, because he was the victim of a crime, and that means getting authorities involved, and he’s said that he didn’t want the police to know more than his own friends did. So Remus knows some things, and that means that he knows that when Janus says _back there_ , he means in the basement of his kidnappers’— a man and a woman who Janus refuses to call by name— house, chained to the wall, with only enough available movement to reach the old typewriter that his kidnappers gave him, because they wanted him to write them a book but didn’t want to give him a laptop.

Remus wants to kill them. He wants to kill them so bad. He thinks he might, if he thought Janus would want that. But he’s pretty sure that Janus wants them to suffer in prison for the rest of their lives, so he’s abstained from murder for mostly only that reason.

“Every time I sleep, you’re dead,” he whispers back, rather than saying any of that. “I don’t like sleeping much either.”

Is that making it about him too much? He’s just trying to help Janus feel not-alone.

“I thought I was,” Janus says. “I thought I was going to die there.”

He sucks in a shuddering breath. Remus tightens his grip.

He hasn’t asked about the scars yet. None of them have. He’s scared to, if he’s being completely honest with himself, and he does so try to be. He’s scared, scared that the reality of what happened will turn out to have been worse than what he’s imagined, and he’s imagined a lot. He can’t stop himself. Has never been able to stop himself. But he hasn’t been able to bring himself to ask, either.

“I thought they were going to kill me,” Janus says.

The honesty is startling. Stark, in its contrast to the way Janus usually is. Janus talks like it’s dancing, makes a game out of sarcasm and half-truths until reality is all twisted up and around, and Remus loves it. But this isn’t that. This isn’t that at all. This is raw. Terrified.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Remus says. “Not if you don’t want to, Janny.”

“I _don’t_ ,” Janus says. “I _don’t_ , I want to never have to think about it ever again. But I can’t _have_ that. I—” He breaks off, choking on a sob, and god, he looks so tired, and he’s practically shaking apart in Remus’ arms, and Remus doesn’t know what to do but he has to do _something_.

“I’m here,” he says. “Whatever you need. If you need to tell someone, you can tell me. I’m not a fragile fucking flower.” He pauses. “I might wanna go and rip their throats out with my teeth, but you know me. I kinda wanna do that anyway, so I don’t know if that makes a difference.”

Janus laughs. Short, and a bit forced, but it’s something. “I would have liked that,” he says. “I would have given anything to see it.” He stops for a second, breathing in and out, and when he continues, his voice is the barest of whispers. “They used ropes before they used chains. I managed to get my hands on a safety pin. Whenever they weren’t there, I tried to fray the ropes. It took… weeks. I think. Probably more.”

The pieces slot into place. “You tried a jailbreak.”

“I tried a jailbreak,” Janus agrees. “It… didn’t work. I picked a bad time. They caught me again. They… she said that it wasn’t a punishment. That they were giving me a gift. A reason to stay, a reason why no one would ever want to see my face again. They chained me down, and she ripped my face open with an exacto knife.” His voice has gone flat. “It kept bleeding. I kept bleeding. They panicked a little bit, because the bleeding wouldn’t stop but they knew they couldn’t take me to a hospital. They thought I was bleeding out. In the moment, I thought I was too. Part of me hoped that I would.”

He can’t stop the noise of protest that escapes him, can’t prevent himself from tightening his grip even further, holding Janus as close to him as he can.

_A reason why no one would ever want to see my face again._

Those _fuckers_.

“I’m gonna kill them,” he mutters, the words ripped from him. He feels like a caged animal, snarling and growling at a threat that he can’t fight. “I’m gonna kill them. Gonna tear their hearts out of their chests and make them eat ‘em.”

Janus sighs, turning his face further into Remus’ shirt.

“As much as I appreciate the offer,” he says, and he sounds as if he’s regained some equilibrium, “it won’t do much good at this point.” He stops. Shifts a bit, but doesn’t pull away. “Thank you for letting me talk to you. You’re the only one who doesn’t look at me like I’m bound to break at any second.”

He blinks. “Why would they think you’re gonna break?” he says. “I mean, no shame if you did, but you’re the strongest fucking person I know. Just because you’re in rough shape doesn’t mean you’re broken. And having a few breakdowns doesn’t mean you’re broken either. I think you deserve them.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Janus says wryly. “Tell that to the others, would you?”

A spark of anger flares in Remus’ chest. He knows that Janus is being sarcastic, that he doesn’t actually mean for Remus to literally go and tell everyone else what he just said, but he will absolutely do it if it makes Janus more comfortable.

“I’m being unfair, of course,” Janus says. “It’s only been a week. I can’t expect everything to go back to normal so quickly, if ever, and I suppose that I—”

“It’s not unfair for you to want people to treat you like a whole person,” Remus interjects.

There is a beat of silence.

“Thank you,” Janus says. “I mean that.”

He swallows, his throat suddenly feeling thick.

“Anytime,” he says, and wonders if Janus can tell just how much he means it. “Do you want me to go?”

There is another beat of silence, longer this time, and Remus is just about to start extracting himself when Janus speaks again.

“Stay?” he asks, barely audible, and Remus is utterly powerful to refuse. He doesn’t know if Janus would still want him to be here if he knew about the feelings he still nurtures in his chest— like a little baby bird, bald and ugly and helpless— but he likes to think that he would, that it wouldn’t come between them too much, so he doesn’t feel particularly guilty as he maneuvers them into a horizontal position.

It’s a circumstance ripe for sexual jokes. But for once, none come to mind, and Remus drifts off to sleep with all his limbs entangled with Janus’, the sound of Janus’ breathing the best lullaby he could possibly ask for. The dreams don’t return that night.

* * *

He does end up talking to everyone else, if only because he is so sick and tired of the way things are now. Everyone is, of course, suitably dismayed to learn that the way they’ve been acting is hurting Janus, and they all make promises to try to change their behavior, though frankly, Remus is starting to be of the opinion that they all need to just. Go to therapy. Himself included.

They’ve all got different issues. Logan has done a lot of research on how not to overwhelm trauma victims, but has ended up going too far in the other direction. Patton is struggling between wanting to clear the air and wanting to pretend that nothing happened at all, which he knows isn’t healthy, so that’s turned into awkward avoidance. Virgil’s grappling with some really, really bad anxiety over the whole thing, which, yeah, he saw that one coming.

Roman is just a mess overall.

“I had such a hard time reconciling myself to the fact that he was gone,” he admits, one day when they’re alone in the house. Logan and Patton are at work, Virgil’s at the animal shelter, and Janus has a meeting with his prosecutors, so it’s just him and his brother, sitting in the living room. “I feel like I should be able to accept that he’s back pretty easily, right? But it feels even harder than it was before.”

Remus shrugs, staring up at the ceiling. He’s sprawled himself across the whole couch, because he refuses to sit properly while they’re having a serious discussion about their feelings. He can only take so much.

“I don’t think it’s about what you ‘should’ be feeling,” he says, making air quotes. “Don’t fucking worry about it so much. Just feel what you _are_ feeling, and work through that.”

Roman snorts, but he sounds a little better, so maybe Remus has actually managed to be helpful. Go figure.

“What about you?” Roman says. “What are you feeling?”

“Oh, no no no,” he says. “We’re not turning this around on me. That’s not what we’re doing.”

“I’m serious.”

“I’m serious too!” He pauses. “Serious about butts!”

“And that’s enough of that.”

It’s easy to get Roman off his case in the moment. But that doesn’t change the fact that they both know exactly what he’s talking about, and it doesn’t let him escape the looks that his brother sends him every now and then, the looks that are somehow both encouraging and concerned all at the same time. Those looks make him want to vomit a little bit, because he does not need Roman involving himself in this, no thank you.

The fact that there’s a _this_ to get involved in in the first place is bad enough.

The thing is, Remus has no idea what to do with his feelings. Before Janus got kidnapped for almost a year, he would have said that he was content to never say anything about it at all, because he likes taking risks but not _that_ kind of risk, not the kind of risk that might result in things being awkward and weird between them, their friendship strangled like a tree covered in kudzu.

But then Janus died, and one of his deepest regrets was that he never said anything. That he never took the chance.

And now Janus is back. And honestly, he kind of would like to voice it. Would like Janus to know, if only for the sake of the knowing. No expectations or shit like that. But there never seems to be a good time, and Remus isn’t sure if there ever will be a good time, not with everything that Janus has been through. Because Janus hates being treated like he’s fragile, like he’s broken, and Remus has no intention of doing that, but the fact is that Janus is recovering, that they _all_ are, and Remus doesn’t want to add an extra complication on top of that.

He’s not stupid enough to think that that’s not what it would be. What he would be. A complication. He’s a difficult person to deal with even in the best of times, and though Janus puts up with him, though Janus is his friend, the best of times, these are not.

He’s going to be exactly what Janus needs. No more. No less.

Which somehow, ends up meaning sleeping in his bed.

It takes a little while for it to become a pattern, after the first night. In fact, it’s another full week before it happens again, before his nightmares drive him to go make sure that Janus is alive. Before he finds Janus awake once again, before they find themselves able to sleep so much better if they’re pressed up against each other, as if they each keep the other’s bad dreams away.

It happens a few more times, always with a few days interspersed between. And then, one night, Janus comes to his room instead. His face is flushed, and he keeps looking away, as if he’s ashamed, as if he doesn’t want to admit that he needs this. And Remus might be insulted, except he knows exactly how prideful Janus is, knows exactly how much all of this must sting, and he can’t possibly be upset about that. So he scoots over in his bed, cracks a lame joke about hogging the covers, unless Janus has brought an actual hog— in which case, hogging the covers would be cool, and “Maybe we could set it on Roman tomorrow!”— and Janus climbs in next to him, and in the morning, he wakes with Janus’ nose pressed against his collarbone, and the world feels just a little bit alright.

It’s nightly, after that.

They only really talk about it once, in the middle of the night, when both of them are sleepy and nearly incoherent.

“They’d watch me in my sleep,” Janus mumbles, words slurring. “But they’d never touch me. If you’re here, I know they’re not, neither of them. I can sleep and wake up and not be scared.”

And in reply, he says, “I like to feel your heartbeat,” which is probably the most romantic shit he’s ever said, so he considers himself lucky that Janus is too tired to pick up on it.

So that is that. They sleep together, and they don’t really talk about it, but it’s alright because neither of them feels as though they really need to.

When Remus wakes one morning to find Janus’ bed empty, it takes him by surprise.

It has been almost a full month, by now, a full month since Janus returned to them, but his first instinct is still a rush of fear, a crushing certainty that the past few weeks has been a very long, very involved hallucination, and if he gets up and goes to talk to the others, all of them will be convinced that Janus never came back at all.

He sits up, his heart in his throat, and spares a moment to consider what it would be like if his heart was actually in his throat, whether or not it would have room to pump, whether or not he would be able to breathe. And then, the fear abates, because Janus is sitting at his desk, his hair like a halo in the light from the morning sun. He has his laptop open in front of him, and he has— Remus squints— a Word document pulled up. It’s empty, nothing written yet.

“G’morning,” he says. “Did you eat a worm?”

Janus turns to look at him. His eyes are tired. Too tired. “What,” he says.

“Y’know, early bird gets the worm? So did you eat a worm?”

Janus sighs. “No,” he says, “I’m afraid not.” He turns back to his laptop, types a few words, and then deletes them a split second later. “My lawyer texted me. The trial’s scheduled to begin three weeks from now.”

“Oh.” Remus chews on that for a moment. “That’s a good thing, right?”

“Yes,” Janus says. “It’s good. They’ll be behind bars, once and for all.”

“Okay,” Remus says, “so why don’t you sound like that’s good?” Because he doesn’t. He doesn’t sound happy, doesn’t even sound remotely pleased. Which, sure, Remus knows that he’s not looking forward to the trial itself, isn’t looking forward to having to testify, but still, there should be at least a bit of satisfaction at the prospect of having all of this over and done with.

Janus just sounds exhausted. Wrung out. A washcloth twisted to get all the water out, a person put in a juicer to smush out all the oozy bits. But the oozy bits are emotions. In this case. Hm.

“It’s not that.” Janus isn’t looking at him, but Remus can hear the scowl. “I told you about how they made me write?”

Yes. Yes, Janus told him. He told him about the typewriter, how they constantly came to check to be sure that he was actually writing them a book, how they gave him four days after cutting his face open before they set him back to work again, chains around his wrists instead of ropes.

Yes. Janus told him.

“You mentioned it,” he says.

“I don’t think I can do it anymore,” Janus says.

He cocks his head. The conversation has started to edge into serious territory, which is not fantastic just after he’s woken up, but it’s fine. He throws the covers all the way off, scrambling forward to perch on the edge of the bed nearest to Janus’ desk.

“Can’t do what?” he asks. “Write?”

He’s not expecting him to say yes. But he nods, still not looking back at him.

“Yes,” he says.

“Jan,” he says. “Janny. J-anus. It’s been a month. You don’t have to be writing anything right now.” He rocks back and forth a bit. “And if Remy says otherwise, I’ll beat him up,” he adds, perhaps more savagely than he needs to.

Janus slams his hands on his desk. Not too hard, but enough to make a banging sound, and Remus freezes, more at the unexpectedness of it than at anything else.

“That’s not,” he starts, “it’s not—” He breaks off, pivoting in his chair, and Remus has absolutely no idea how to categorize the expression on his face. “Nobody told me I needed to write. _I_ need to write. But I can’t.” He raises a finger, forestalling anything that Remus might say. Which is good, because Remus has no fucking clue what to do. “And it’s not a lack of ideas. I have enough ideas for five books. But every time I try to start, I feel like vomiting. My mind freezes up. I’m left staring at a blank document for hours.” His lips twist into a snarl, and it’s a terrible thing to see, even though Remus knows that it’s not directed at him. “I _hate_ it.”

Remus stares at him for a long moment. He doesn’t know what to do here. Doesn’t know what he could say that would bring him any comfort, that wouldn’t sound like a useless platitude.

“I can’t help but feel like this is just another thing that they’ve taken from me,” Janus says, more subdued, and—

No.

Absolutely the fuck not.

He’s in motion immediately, not stopping to think before he’s grabbing Janus’ hands, yanking him up from his chair and pulling him into a fierce hug, as if he can squeeze all of those thoughts right out of him.

“They haven’t taken _shit_ ,” he says. “Do you hear me? They’ve taken jack _shit_. You’re gonna be able to write again, and when you do, it’s gonna be fucking fantastic, because everything you write is fucking fantastic. So what if you can’t do it right now? It fucking sucks but it’s not gonna be forever. You’re stronger than they are, and you wanna know how I know that?” He pulls back, just to be able to look into Janus’ eyes. “You survived. You got away. You’re about to put them behind bars for the rest of their miserable lives, and meanwhile, you came home. You came back to us. So they didn’t get shit, and they can’t have shit. They’re never gonna get shit. They couldn’t keep you, and they’re never gonna be able to keep you.”

Janus looks at him. There are tears in his eyes.

“Do you mean that?” he asks.

“You know I don’t say things I don’t mean,” he replies. “It’s okay if you don’t believe me right now though. I can believe enough for both of us.”

Janus draws in a breath. “I think I might love you,” he says.

And—

Wow, that is absolutely not what Remus expected to come out of his mouth. He turns the words over in his head, and, yep, he didn’t mishear, it was definitely those words in that order. Something strange is happening in his chest, and for a moment, he thinks it might be a heart attack. Or maybe he swallowed fireworks and now they’re all going off, and his rib cage is about to explode.

He opens his mouth. Closes it again. Opens it. Janus is still staring, and he looks surprised, now, as if he hadn’t quite meant to say what he just said. But he’s not taking it back. He’s not taking it back, and really, that’s all the permission Remus needs.

“Thank fucking god,” he says. “I was getting really stressed about whether or not I should confess _my_ big gay love for _you_. Guess you beat me to the punch.”

Janus starts laughing, high and relieved, and he keeps talking, because he’s on a roll now and he doesn’t feel inclined to stop.

“Also the scars are hot. Like, objectively. I still want to kill them for doing that to you but you are somehow even sexier now, which I didn’t think was possible, and I keep wanting to lick your face for some reason so I think you should congratulate me on the self-restraint I’ve shown, because really—”

Janus shuts him up by kissing him. With tongue. His lips are chapped, but that just makes it more interesting. Not that it wouldn’t have been interesting. This is about five fantasies coming true all at once, and wow, Janus is actually a very, very good kisser, and he thinks that if he died now he would die happy, and what a way to go that would be. They could put it on his tombstone: _Here lies Remus, died by the best kiss of his whole life, holy shit_.

“Thank you, Remus,” Janus says when they part. His voice is hoarse, his face flushed, and his lips are swollen, and Remus feels a thrill at the fact that he’s the one who did that.

“For the kiss?” he asks. “I’ve been dreaming of that for like, forever. Usually we’re having sex too but we don’t have to do that if—”

“For everything,” Janus says. “For being here.”

“Oh.” And there’s not really much else to say to that, is there? “You’re welcome.”

Janus smiles at him, possibly the most genuine smile that Remus has seen since he got back. And he steps closer, folding himself back into Remus’ embrace, and Remus stands there with him, the light of the morning sun slanting through the window, and thinks that everything is going to be okay. Maybe not now, maybe not even soon, but they’ll get there, and for now, Janus just wants him to hold him, and he just wants to hold Janus.

And that, he can do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we have it! The official ending to my first bthb fill! This really was supposed to be a oneshot, and then the unplanned second chapter ended up almost 2k words longer than the first one, but honestly? I'm not mad about it. This was fun, and I hope you guys enjoyed it too!
> 
> I'm @whenisitenoughtrees on tumblr if you'd ever like to come scream with me!


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